


Memories

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Garage Tapes [12]
Category: Gotham City Garage (Comics)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Jason is an asshole big brother sometimes, Plot What Plot, but Damian does sort of bring it on himself, he got better it's fine, mentions of Jason's death, plots are for cowards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 14:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: He’d been so still. Jason’s never still, he always has to fidget with a knife or a screwdriver or one of those little clicky-cubes. But he’d been still, then, and cold, and unmoving when she reached over to brush his bangs back.





	Memories

Dove has what she considers to be an average memory. Imperfect, at times. The sort that can go  _ my third-grade teacher was Mrs. Hancombe, she smelled like makeup and chocolate-chip-cookies _ , but forgets, a thousand times over, that she’s out of vanilla.

She remembers, in excruciating technicolor, what it was like to be half-escorted, half-dragged into the morgue to identify her son’s remains. It had been freezing, and she remembers thinking hysterically that  _ Jay hates to be cold can’t they turn the goddamn A/C down or at least give him a blanket? _

Not that it had mattered. The dead don’t feel cold.

He’d been so still. Jason’s never still, he always has to fidget with a knife or a screwdriver or one of those little clicky-cubes. But he’d been still, then, and cold, and unmoving when she reached over to brush his bangs back.

She’d puked, and even now she can taste watery bile on the back of her tongue, hear the  **splat!** it had made striking the white tiles. And then she’d turned around, told the Bat to go fuck himself, and walked out. Broken down in the car five minutes later, but she’d managed to keep her head up on the way to it.

So there’s that.

She remembers half-wanting to claw the white rose off her wrist, tattoo or not. Or to cut it off, cut down to the bone if she had to, because  _ return to happiness, my ass, how do you fucking cope with  _ ** _this?_ **

But she hadn’t. She’d just started wearing longer sleeves. But they’d been pushed up, the first time she shot a man, and the blood had splattered on that rose and even now, she’s not sure it really washed off.

It had been warm. Slick. It had smeared, badly, when she rubbed her finger through it. There had been three separate-but-similar splatters from April to October, when she’d been preparing to move, and.

And. Well. Jason had come home.

Weirdly enough, that night’s a blur. The week after is not, but there’s a blank patch from opening her door to the sun streaming through the window the next morning that refuses to yield information. Just snippets; water. Splinters. A lot of crying. Not much else, and she’s really not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

Maybe it’s both.

“I WILL DESTROY YOU!”

Oh, boy. That came from outside--what in the world?

Damian just came flying-not leaping, flying, like a tossed bean bag-onto the trampoline. He sticks the landing, rocketing back up with a furious, “I’LL TEACH YOU TO DISRESPECT ME IN THAT MANNER AGAIN!”

“Good luck, pipsqueak!”

“AHHHH!”

She sighs, tries to remember that both of them are very well-behaved  **most of the time** (one of them is an adult, for Heaven’s sake, with his own gang and everything!) and shuffles outside.

“Damian, please don’t stab your brother.” Damian, who is in the air again, scowls but drops back onto the trampoline. “Jason, don’t encourage your brother to stab you.”

Jason points and laughs.

“He wishes he could stab me.”

“THAT’S IT—”

“Jason,  _ please _ .”

“All right, all right.” He huffs and steps towards the edge of the roof. “You could totally stab me if you tried, Dami. Honest.”

That’s not at all helpful.

Damian pops up again and before she can say anything, he’s grabbed hold of Jason’s arm and yanked him off the roof.

“SHIT--”

Well. She did say no stabbing. But. Really. Why.

“Yield,” Damian snarls. The effect is somewhat ruined by the continuous wobbling of the trampoline. “Yield to your better-PUT ME DOWN!”

Her memory’s decent, but for the life of her, she can’t recall what it was like to just have  **silence** .

THE END


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